


Within Earshot

by Fangu



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Fluffish, Friendship, Partnership, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangu/pseuds/Fangu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fran learns to speak. Balthier learns to listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within Earshot

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for sexual language.

“ _Balthier_. Such an unusual name.”

He didn’t pay attention to how her eyes were green - only how there was something to them, a cheekiness he appreciated where she sat, chair close to his, bare legs flung over his leather clad thighs.

“Right you are,” he said, offering her neither further explanations nor Madhu.

The girl balanced the handle of her mug on her index finger, gold necklace glistening as she watched him. A lesser man would have been chewed up and spat out hours ago. Balthier, however, knew how to count, which he did, silently, as he held her stare; as he reached the number eight she revealed teeth pointy and white.

“You took that name for yourself.” Brisk, yet elegant, she moved to help herself from the bottle on the table, watching the honeyed drink pour into her cup. “I should have known.”

Balthier emptied his mug. “Would you rather it was given to me by a free-spirited mother?” His arm was unsteady as he placed it on the table. “By a caring father? If so, how would that make me different, and how would said difference be to your liking?”

She put a finger to her forehead, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t know.” She cleared her throat, grabbing for her mug. “It probably just tells me your given name must have been rather silly.”

Balthier chuckled. “Oh, it was.”

She studied her drink, a smile on her lips.“Validus. Or Chenne. No wait, wait, I know - Adolphus!”

“Worse.”

Her eyes shone.

For a moment, Balthier hesitated. Revealing his birth name was a gamble too grand for a pirate with a reputation as well as a record to answer for it. Yet he sampled the sweet taste of risk, of leaving it all to the hands of the Gods, giving her his name, accepting any challenge that might follow. He couldn’t be sure if the girl whose legs were flung over his was preparing to rob him or fuck him - adding ‘kidnapping’ to the list didn’t seem particularly risky.

The moment lasted for about three seconds, then he felt the imaginary set of two inch claws sliding into his gut, a mature voice sighing in his ear: _Oh Balthier. What have you done._

“Fred.”

The girl grimaced. “That’s not the worst.”

Balthier shrugged. “I never liked it.” His eyes wandered through the room, in between the crowd of people, to halt on a sight much familiar: Tall, muscular legs masqued in armour, tangle-free white and silver against a back covered in leather, furry ears poking out through ornamental steel.

His gaze lingered. The girl traced it, sighing. “Viera are so beautiful. I want to not hate them for it.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” Balthier rushed, forgetting to count. “Prettiest brunette in this bar,” he added, the breadth of his smile very carefully calculated.

The girl scoffed, eyes narrowing unevenly as she turned to the slender frame by the bar. “What does she have that I don’t?”

Very slowly Balthier let his eyes run down his partner’s backside - a luxury, like being paid for drinking. He furrowed his brows. “Salience.”

She turned to him, puzzled.

He cleared his throat. “What I’m saying is - there’s too much of her. Legs, hair, _ears_ … as if she was born to suck up every grain of attention.” He drank deeply from his mug, mumbling his next word against the rim. “And you know what they say about the Chocobo who wears the flashiest feathers.”

Her grin was skewed. “He’s been groomed?”

“No,” Balthier said, “he doesn’t win races.”

“You want someone fast.” Her grin suggested appreciation for her own wittiness as much as for his. She put the mug to her lips, tipping her head back as she emptied it, then squinted her eyes shut. “Well, my boy - you are in luck. Speedier than lightning.” She pulled her legs away from his.” Lehs’go.”

 _She’s too drunk to rob me_ , Balthier thought.

¨

She was warm and funny, squirming in the rented bed; he liked her. She was drunk, but tastefully so, rolling up her shirt to whip him into hurrying up. He was disappointed when she didn’t put her mouth on his cock, although he never expected her to - women rarely did for the first lay. He settled for her lips on his, her laughs turning to purrs. “Move your arm,” she said, “put your leg here” - most of it an act for his audience, moaning gently into his ear, enjoying how his cock hardened in her hand. “Do you want me?” she breathed. When he shared his agreement, she moaned.

Just moments ago she’d sat alongside him, fully clothed, talking about ships and ports and politics. Now she was hot and wet beneath him, whimpering as he worked her. He appreciated this about his partners: Clothed or not, their laughter was the same.

“Come on my stomach,” she panted, “I don’t like the feeling of cum there.”

¨

The walk to the docks was short, the night still hot enough to make Balthier’s shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin. The guard by the entrance barely nodded at his access card. Twenty steps down the hall, a large hangar door slid aside, and there she was: His much beloved metal bird, his pride and joy since the day he freed her from his previous employer.

Balthier had never been an army man at heart. The profession had taught him combat, tactics and piloting, skills which were all useful for his current profession, yet none of them as beneficial as those self-taught: Street tricks, escapism and other forms of manipulation, languages and accents included. Piracy was an act of dramatics, one that he and his eye pulling partner did well. Impressed by each other’s skills, they had teamed up a cold winter night many years ago. Originally there was a third member to their team. They did not speak of him very often.

A yawn threatened to unhinge his jaw as he entered the code to the door. Sliding open, it revealed nothing but a blunt darkness. Balthier inhaled, closed his eyes, and started to listen. It was a ridiculous ritual he never seemed to get any better at, yet he persisted. The woman was as stealthy as the best of diamond thieves. If he got it right, it was always by guess.

He entered the ship, one foot, then the next.

“Fran?”

No answer. He scoffed, hitting the light switch. The undecorated pipe-formed lights lined along the ceiling lit up.

He made it down the hall, climbing the small set of stairs leading down to the lower part of the ship. Under the stairs, he unhooked the bathtub down from the wall. Attached to the docks, they had the luxury of water - which didn’t always flow on the first try, just like it wouldn’t right now, but two turns with a tool they kept behind the sink did the trick.

The tub not even a third full, he peeled off his sticky clothes to leave in a pile on the floor, and climbed in. The tub full, he shut the water off, leaning back until his knees poked out of the water, staring at the small fly chasing the yellowish light in the ceiling above him.

The Madhu was wearing off, the remains of post coital bliss slowly working its way down every limb of his body. The surface of the tub smooth against his back, he slid down until his ears were covered in water. His hearing dulled, the world appeared so different, dumbed down and carefully packaged, like inside of a cocoon. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath as he submerged his head completely.

His cocoon was now complete, his vision a blur, dancing softly in front of his eyes - a blue and grey veil only disturbed by the light, gently flicking above him --

\-- the light, and two pointy stripes of white suddenly hovering above him.

He emerged briskly, inhaling much too hard for someone having stayed underwater for barely ten seconds.

The amount of teeth revealed told him she was mocking him. Fran was old, easily five times his age, yet appearing only slightly his senior.

“Are you alright?”

Blinking, he pushed the water away from his face. “Yes. I - just got back.”

Her eyes drifted, a smile still on her lips. “I heard.”

Of course she heard. With those antennas attached to her head, Fran could hear everything. Ears tilting, her stare paused where he wished it would not.

“Stop staring at me,” he mumbled.

“It looks used.”

“Fran!”

“There were new upgrades for the mapping system,” she said, face straight as she turned back to him. “It updated fine except for a few bugs demanding a minor manual fix or two, but nothing causing any larger issues.”

Balthier pulled his knees closer to his chest, clearing his throat. “Good.”

Fran’s ears flapped, her gaze turning up towards the ceiling. “Our lady sings tonight, can you hear? She is happy.”

“Even if the Strahl had feelings, you know I wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“One day you might hear.”

With the whip of a ponytail, she was out.

He considered masturbating in the tub out of spite, but he was too tired to bother.

¨

It was Fran who first learned of the wreckage - of course. Balthier couldn’t charm news of this kind out of a fellow pirate no matter how tight he wore his trousers.

They glided over thick jungle for an hour before finding a decent place to lower the ship. As the door slid open, the humid hit them like a wall. Magnificent, beasty shrills echoed through the layers of trees and plants. Fran’s ears flicked back and forth. “Let us be on our way. This place is not forgiving.”

“Bah, sea pirates,” Balthier yelled as they trotted through the jungle. “They’d never get here in time.”

“Be quiet,” Fran said.

“Why - are you afraid the trees will learn of our treasure and take it for themselves?”

Fran didn’t reply.

A few hours of trekking, and they reached an area of cliffs. They followed a small creek until they reached a crevice, a crack in the rock, where the creek originated. By the side of the entrance, the path terminated into a drop of unknown length. Fran halted, her senses peaked.

“Is something wrong?” Balthier said when she stayed put.

Fran wrinkled her nose. “The wreck must be near.”

“Burned metal?”

“No.” Her chest expanded, her long legs digging into the soil. “It is - a sound.”

“Noise from the ship?”

“Vibrations. High pitched.” She sneered. “It is not pleasant.”

Balthier frowned. What strange machinery had his father conjured up to replace the ship he once stole from his lab? He shrugged the feeling off, cocked his gun and went for the opening. The steps behind him were strangely reluctant.

They were barely twenty meters into the cave when Fran came to a full halt. Her ears turned outwards, slightly flattening in a way he had never before witnessed.

“This… sound. I can not --”

She took a step back, then another, her movements jerkier than usual. Then she spun around and rushed out of the cave like a hare running from a fox.

Balthier did not call her. For a few minutes he remained still, giving the cave one last long look, trying to hear, smell or spot what he was obviously yet to realise. But to him, the cave was nothing but red, damp rock.

Back outside, Fran was standing with arms crossed, looking down over the edge of the cliff. She was standing completely still save for her ears, moving rapidly with the tiniest of twitches. Balthier cleared his throat, then walked up to her. In the corner of his eye he could see her chest rise and fall with a pace that would have been deemed unnatural for a Hume.

“Are you alright?”

Her stare startled him.

“I can not go back inside.”

“Certainly,” he said, adding slowly, “is it Mist?”

“No.” Her breathing was slowing.

For moments they both stared into the abyss.

“Abort mission then?” Balthier asked.

Fran shifted, uncomfortable. For a split second he was sure he saw her upper lip twitch. Her ears vibrated rapidly as if shaking off dust, then she tossed her head, her ponytail following suit.

“Agreed.”

She didn’t move. Balthier didn’t count, but would have reached five before realising she was waiting for him to go first.

¨

For their return to the Strahl, Fran remained silent, only speaking what was required for the lift-off procedure. Having reached marching height, Balthier glanced over at her. “Will you watch her for a few hours? I feel like a nap.”

From his bunk in the room adjacent, he could see her reaching for her bow, fitted awkwardly behind her seat, where he’d never seen her leave it before. Her claws ran over the wood, creating a pleasant sound. She hooked a finger behind the string, pulling, letting go; the hum resonated softly through the cockpit. She repeated the process, a steady rhythm; Balthier was almost asleep when the string stilled.

“Do you sing, Balthier?”

“Only the occasional Madhu chant,” he murmured, his eyes closed.

“Surely you must know other songs.”

“Maybe a few ditties from my childhood.”

The cockpit echoed with the sound of heels against steel, pausing in the doorway.

“Your mother sang them to you?”

“My mother died when I was very young.”

“Your father?”

“He preferred reading books. Books I never cared for.” He grimaced; the memory was still too fresh.

“Once you were a babe, cradled in your mothers arms, kept warm by her teat.”

Balthier frowned, eyes still closed. “That is how it often goes, aye - why, you were not?”

“Viera are kept warm by the womb of the Wood, by her siblings, huddled together under the leaves. We sang songs of roots and soil, of rain and skies, falling asleep to the sound of our joined voices.”

Balthier was still contemplating his reply when The Strahl’s engine started purring deeply. The ship was set to spend as little energy as possible, detaching one glossair ring before activating the other. The switch done, she again fell silent.

Balthier would have counted to at least fifteen - was he indeed counting.

He flinched as he felt the mattress lower on one side. The touch of her body aligning next to his was careful, trying - when he remained still, she leaned in to tuck her head against his stomach, her cheek warm against the bare skin revealed by his open shirt. Her movements were odd, fidgety: Her ears brushed against his chest, the tip of one poking into the underside of his chin.

She was so skinny, nearing bony - her armour so hard, poking into his side as he tried deciding where to land his hand. It settled into a pouf of hair, soft against his palm. For moments he listened to his own breathing, trying to read the situation, trying to read her wants. Then he felt it, very gently: The pulse on her neck, throbbing into his waistline. One beat following the other, steadily. Counting it seemed like such a waste. Instead, he inhaled.

_Oh, I know of a place down South_  
 _Where the waves lap the shores of its colourful mouth_

His own voice was strange in the warm, metallic echo of his ship.

_Somewhere you won’t have to bend to your knee, a port for the people who long to be free_  
 _Spending their days making peace with the sea,_  
 _Oh with the sea,_  
 _The South is the port where you'd much rather be_

Balthier exhaled, clearing his throat. “I can’t seem to remember the second verse.”

The tip of her ear tickled his chin.

“What is this place you sing of?”

Balthier shrugged. “My guess is the South-East of Archadia, as it’s a song you wouldn’t want to be caught singing in the halls.”

“You sing of Balfonheim.” Her sigh was very gentle, almost inaudible.

“Again.”

  
  



End file.
